


by boring brick

by Tridraconeus



Series: it's not like you're dying [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Characters Added As They Appear - Freeform, Gen, Henchmen, LOTS of OCs to come, References to Drug Use, canon-divergent, jason is a little bit of an asshole, lonnie appears for two sentences in chapter 5, no offense to canon but... so much offense to canon, tim is good at defusing situations, will not be instrumental to the plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5121122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After meeting up with Jason on Halloween, Tim takes a faceful of untested fear toxin while they foil a plot to gas Gotham cooked up by Scarecrow. Jason is determined to set things right, no matter how many annoying brothers and villains he has to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> This is a self-indulgent wreck alright okay alright alright okay, also somewhat of a sandbox for me to test out voices and play with OCs and adding sub-plots into a work. Un-Beta'd, work in progress.  
> In general: Jason has the stereotypical Rocky Past With Tim, but he is NOT a dumb behemoth who is powered by blind rage. He is canonically smart, a good scholar and not to blame for his own death, thank you.  
> Tim is very organized in everything except his personal life.  
> In this story: Jason has been accepted, however warily, by the Bats (former or otherwise) and isn't killing everything and everyone he thinks deserves it.
> 
> This might be edited and changed around in the future! For now, enjoy and give feedback if you so wish! :D

_(so you built up a world of magic/_  
_because your real life is tragic)_  
  
 "Don't shoot him, Hood."  
 

The voice carries from the rooftop. Jason's head twists to look up-- Red Robin is crouched on the edge and his shoulders are tense in the way that says he's had a rough night.

"He was givin' out the wrong kind of candy." And even though his voice is gruff, he knows that Tim's already won, because why wouldn't he? Tim could sell fleas to a dog, _with interest_.  Jason digs his boot into one skinny hip anyways; ignores the shuddering sob.

Tim is more than smart enough to pick up on the implications that Jason is giving out, even with a brown paper bag sitting innocently up against a wall. _So_ the kid is selling drugs. _So_ the kid is probably not in a good state of mind, and Red Hood stomping on his hip and pointing a gun at his face can't be helping matters.

"So you're going to execute him? That seems a little like disproportionate retribution."

Jason growls behind the hood. Nevertheless, he takes his foot off of the druggie's side. Immediately, he flips fully over and starts trying to worm away-- something between an army crawl and an odd little shimmy on his belly. Tim-- even though he's still on the roof, can't standing not having all the details-- can see that his elbows are raw and scraped all to hell, mixed blood and exudate smearing on the gritty asphalt. Someone must have done a number on him before he crossed Jason (or before Jason crossed him-- both are equally probable), because his elbows are scabbed around the edges. Detective skills, check.

A sharp crack shatters the moment; a warning shot that clips the dealer's shoulder and kicks up concrete, nicks those scraped-up cheeks. It's enough that the kid holds still pretty as you please. Jason leans down to nuzzle the base of his head with the mouth of the gun. The kid is shaking, now.

"I wasn't going to execute him. Execution implies some measure of dignity."

It's kind of crazy. Tim can hear the smile in his voice; it's not wide, unabashed, like his smile in the faded pictures Tim took long ago, and it's not soft and mournful like the ones Tim feels honored to catch glimpses of now; it's sharp around the edges, like an open wound with teeth. Like the ones when he came back. Like Bruce, sometimes. Like Dick, when he thinks nobody's watching. Tim wonders if _he_ has a smile like that. Instead of musing further, he gives a gusty sigh and rolls his eyes; and Jason knows, even though Tim has the screen down in his domino and his eyes are whited-out.

Jason's _really_ not interested in arguing with Tim, of all people, of all _vigilantes_ , right now.

"What are you, some sort of self-appointed guardian angel?"

"I'm the good cop in this relationship."

Jason laughs. Straightens up, throws his head back and laughs, and for a second Tim looks like he might crack a smile.

"Nah. You're the bad cop. I'm the worse cop."

Tim shrugs assent. Jason's right. He's done worse, and nobody would forget the time Jason had to hold _him_ back, but nobody would bring it up either.

"Besides, I don't think he made much of a profit tonight in this part of town, and I think he's paid his due to society by having you tear into him for--" Tim makes a show of counting on his fingers, one, two, three. "Minutes. Let him go; and if he's being a menace to proper society any next time I won't stop you."

Jason knows what this is. It's a way to let him down easy; let him think he still holds the power. He grunts, shoots another warning shot right next to the trembling _kid's_ foot, and kicks him in the leg. It's more than enough to send him skittering off like some scared wild animal.

"Y'better be a model citizen the next time I see you, punk!"

He wastes no more bullets.

Tim leaps off the building, lands-- a three-point landing, something that looks graceful on his sinewy frame and-- not slow. Solid.-- on Jason's-- and stands up. He barely reaches Jason's chin.

"No broken bones. I'm impressed."

Smug. Insufferable. But right, as usual. "You don't know that."

Jason has to marvel, not for the first time, how goddamn _small_ the kid is. If he didn't know he was pushing eighteen he'd guess around the age of sixteen. Fourteen, maybe.

"You of all people should know that--"

Jason silences him with a glare, and a plain invasion of his personal space. He doesn't need to be reminded of his past, thank you very much. But he's putting his gun back into its holster; there won't be any violence aimed towards Tim _from him_ tonight. Tim breathes out a slow sigh of relief and cracks his neck, whited-out eyes staring expectantly at Jason.

"When I called at him, he ran. And then he fought back."

Like that excuses it. Tim looks at him like he's a specimen. Something he'd love to take apart and put back together, pick apart, find how he works. What makes him tick. Jason's had enough of that for two lifetimes, the Y on his chest and the other scars littering his body effortlessly prove that. With no warning, Jason lopes off towards a fire escape, monkeys up with some display of grace. Tim follows much more fluidly. Jason snorts as Tim hauls himself up by the lip of the building instead of using the fire escape as a lever, because he's obviously showing off-- because he doesn't have the same solid build as Jason doesn't mean he's weak. Yeah, Jason gets it. Gets Tim. "Freak."

Tim doesn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he reaches for his comm. Oracle's voice crackles to life through the other end, the conversation picking up as if it had never stopped. As Tim and Barbara chat about Damian's attack on two kids dressed as Joker and Harley, Jason checks his burner phone.

God, Jason misses Barbara.

Tim cuts off communications after thanking her, and turns expectantly to Jason again. As bull-headed as Jason may act sometimes, he isn't stupid. Tim wants an explanation, and he'll get one no matter how Jason deflects. It would be best for his sanity and time to 'fess up, confirm what Tim already _knows_. The kid is a goddamn genius, he doesn't need to actually ask.

"I wasn't actually going to shoot the kid."

There's some measure of awkward silence, broken only by the thunk-thunk of Gotham-- if Jason was a poetic man, he would describe it as the city's heartbeat, throbbing and alive-- and the cool rush of wind over the rooftop. He nearly entertains the thought of taking the hood off and letting the breeze rustle his hair.

"I know."

Tim's voice is quiet. Jason looks at him through his peripherals and catches a smile, soft and knowing.

"So, Scarecrow's stirring up trouble near the Bowery..."

It's all Tim has to say. Jason turns to him and is pulling out a grapple before Tim can even leap off the building, leading the way over the dark alleys. Some, but not all, are lit by grinning jack 'o lanterns, and the yellow light somehow manages to make the sickly shadows glow gold.


	2. awful energies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scarecrow is confronted, Tim's wings are clipped; Jason is scared, Alfred knows best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild descriptions of Jason being violent. Vague handwave-y stuff about what Tim's going through that will be explained and expounded upon in a later chapter. I might also be going back to change the present tense to past tense (with scattered passive voice because I am weak...) in the preface.

_(and all the kids cried out/_  
_please stop, you're scaring me)_  
  
  
By the time they reached the Bowery, things were far too calm. Tim took the lead and Jason let him without trying to push forwards( after all, he had the intel), and if things went to shit he'd take the brunt of it.  
  
"Got a filtration device?" He had his hood; Tim might not have anything, especially since he'd been patrolling all might with nary a chance to refill his supplies. One more thing to ride him about-- to get _Dick_ to ride him about, even though Dick had been the one to _replace_ him Tim still _listened_ to him and if that wasn't the most pathetic thing--  
  
"If we're fast enough, I won't need one."  
  
Again, Jason knew he was showing off. And he knew it was an awful idea, and he didn't say anything, just let Tim slide into the dilapidated tenement through a shattered window and went in after him. The darkness inside was near-suffocating, and only night vision saved Jason from tripping over a goddamn two-by-four on the water-rotted-wood-paneled-glass-covered floor.  Tim forged on until he saw light, and-- because he was Tim-- checked it out for a solid minute before he turned to Jason.

  
_Scarecrow_ , he signed out, painstaking.  
  
  _Lead the way_ , Jason signed back, and then it was _on_.  
  
In the worst way possible. As soon as they went in, Crane loosed his henchmen on them and returned to attending to his bubbling creation like they were nothing. His thugs, however, weren't so conceited. Or bright, on the other hand. Tim took on three at a time while Jason dealt with the two largest of the bunch; kicking one in the chest, fracturing his foot by stomping on it to guarantee he'd stay grounded-- the thug grunted, gave a yowling cry of pain and surprise, and Jason turned to block a haymaker thrown by the thug still standing-- He headbutted him with silent thanks to his reinforced helmet. His target stumbled back, and in counterpoint he surged forwards. He kicked the outside of his knee. It crunched, and the thug gave a strangled cry as he went down. Jason hastened his fall by executing a swift karate chop on his shoulder.  
  
Tim didn't seem to be having any issues in taking down the thugs either. He wasn't quite as acrobatic as Dick, of course, but he still could use the mass of bodies like a jungle gym. Tim kicked, punched, and executed nerve strikes with terrifying efficiency until the thugs were all down, using his (relatively) smaller size to stay a tough, fast-moving target. Jason felt some odd little thrill out of watching Tim put down guys twice his weight without even _breaking bones_. Jason had that finesse, of course, they all did; just in case someone like a civilian or fellow vigilante was drugged or mind-controlled-- but he preferred to use other, cruder, but still effective methods that left a permanent message.  
  
Like slamming the thug that was stupid enough to get up back onto the ground, pulling his arm behind him, and not letting up the pressure until his arm snapped and he _screamed_ again. Yep, he got a vicious satisfaction out of that, too.  
  
"You're finished, Scarecrow." Tim was speaking in that forceful _I'm-A-Fearsome-Vigilante-Grrrr_ voice Jason found both amusing and endearing. He couldn't pull off scary voices quite like Bruce or Jason or even _Dick_ could. His voice wasn't low or gruff or scratchy enough. Regardless of what Jason thought, the thugs on the ground-- whimpering, the one with the dislocated, broken arm and fractured foot weeping quietly-- sure thought he was scary enough.  
  
"Am I?"  
  
And that was when everything really went to hell. Tim was smart enough to jump immediately out of the way and onto a wooden chair, and thankfully Jason was far enough away to make his own escape onto the desk next to him. The bubbling pot tipped over and went to the floor. Chunky, viscous fluid started pouring sluggishly out. As it filled the room, the acrid fumes showed their true nature. Jason, even through his filtration device in the helmet, felt incredibly dizzy and anxious. Tim-- ever the hero, even to people who didn't deserve it, even when he was no doubt scared out of his mind-- threw papers down from the desk to absorb the solution before it reached the fallen thugs. Scarecrow retreated to a corner of the room and laughed at them, harsh, wheezy, grating.  
  
That moment of heroism... it had doomed Tim, even though they didn't know it yet. With a step that looked far too quick on Scarecrow's gangly frame, he kicked out one leg of the chair. Tim went down, hard, caught in a leglock in mid-air as Scarecrow proceeded to beat the shit out of him. It hurt, it hurt to watch, watch Tim fall back helpless under the assault (a forehand across his cheek, snapping his head back, a knee in his gut to bend him over and smash his face into the ground, Scarecrow grabbing his bloody hair and forcing Tim to _meet his eyes_ ) and Jason found himself frozen, joints all locked up and stomach churning in a way that the gas couldn't ever replicate.

 

Shaking off the momentary weakness, Jason leapt to his aid-- maybe the weakness wasn't over, because he landed in the goo instead with emotions swirling around in his head too _fast too fast_. He would have laughed, had this been a dream; this was _god_ awful.  
  
Scarecrow pulled out a spray bottle that looked like it could've held Windex at one point but now held a greenish-yellow mixture that was _melting the goddamn plastic a little_ and-- Jason saw it in slow-motion, limbs moving through molasses-- spritzed Tim, pinned on the ground and looking worse for the wear-- in the face with it.  
  
"Be sure to tell me what happens."  
  
And with that, Scarecrow fled. Any other time Jason would have given chase, any other time he would have drawn his damn guns-- why didn't he think of that earlier?-- and shot him down, but right now he was focused on seeing if Tim was okay and if that nasty-looking fluid had melted his face off at all.  
  
He pulled free of the goo at the cost of his boots. Which was a shame, because they were nice boots-- leather, steel-capped, military-like, with rubber tread to help them grip and climb. Though-- sturdy as they were, the viscous fluid was doing a great job melting the tread, so they were a lost cause regardless.  
  
A quick examination of Tim yielded good news on the face-melting front: some minor irritation, maybe a chemical burn, but nothing major. However, Tim himself wasn't looking too hot. His chest juddered in quick, sharp little gasps, lips pulled back (his entire _face_ was a screwed-up mess and he was actually crying a little, which led Jason to believe the toxin did a lot more than just make Tim _see things_ ), and he was wracked with full-bodied twitches and shivers like he was having some type of seizure.  
  
It was high time to get him back to the Cave. Jason's cycle was back-- somewhere, probably in his hideout's garage, so just carrying Tim would be best. He slung Tim over his shoulders fireman-style and made a break for it, almost tripping over that two-by-four again and getting some glass lodged in his foot-- not too much, and a solid piece, so he could get it out with tweezers once he was... back. With the pain and confusion and emotions, _emotions, emotions_ , getting out was harder than getting in, dizzy and with the added weight of one Tim Drake, however insignificant (light as a bird, _heh_ ) he was. They finally did escape, though, and once Jason's feet touched asphalt finding a route to the underground caves that led him to _the_ Cave was easy.  
  
It was a long, slow plod exacerbated by Tim's whimpering. Jason couldn't _understand_ what he was trying to say, and was all the more grateful for it. By the time they even _got_ to the Cave, Tim's rapidly deteriorating mental state had crumbled away into nothing, and Jason was all too happy to foist him upon Alfred. He took Tim's shaking body with a raised eyebrow and tight frown that Jason knew was the equivalent of Alfred wishing fiery, bloody death onto whoever made one of his charges look like _that_.  
  
"Get some sleep, Master Jason,"  
he said in his calm butler-y _I Know Best_ voice, and Jason muttered out a 'Yes _sir_ ' before going to his room (always ready for him if he ever dropped by, green sheets and pillowcases neatly arranged) and doing exactly that.  
  
In the morning, he didn't check on Tim (pathetically scared of what he would find). No, instead he booked it out of the manor and avoided it like the plague for a _week_.  
  
Which only made things worse when he returned. Dammit. 


	3. if somebody loved you they'd tell you by now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep deprivation, mercy, Damian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this out. Writing it was a little like pulling teeth (I don't know how to write Red Hood Jason being nice, only Robin Jason, precious ray of vindictive sun/son that he is) and if there's OOC, well, yes.

( _you were a child who was made of glass/_  
_carried a black heart passed down from your dad_ )

"You gotta sleep one of these days."

He roughly ruffled Tim's hair, greasy and matted from lack of care, and almost gagged even though he'd seen worse. The scruffy, unhealthy look on Tim... Well, it just seemed wrong. Tim was always perfectly groomed and put-together and seeing him otherwise was strange, almost unreal. His face was still lightly burned and bruised, too, though it had greatly improved with time.

"I'm working." He's dismissive. Jason refused to be dismissed and put one massive hand on Tim's bony shoulder, squeezing with just enough power to convey that he wasn't leaving until he wanted to.

"You're not taking care of yourself."

Tim hunched over the screen and tapped a few things down.

"I'm following a lead on Scarecrow."

Jason squeezed harder, jerked his thumb in a rough little circle on the nape of Tim's neck. Tim felt responsible for that fiasco. Jason didn't know what to say. He talked anyways. "And? It can wait. You won't do much good taking him down if you can't even sit up straight."

Tim, in response, sat up straight; a little too fast, and it was clear the effort made him woozy.

"Ha-ha, Timmy, but you're going to go to sleep one way or another. I recommend you do it my way and fall asleep on a bed instead of passing out on the keyboard." His persuasive speech met a lukewarm reception, which obviously meant it was time for some pragmatism.

"I'll ask Barbara to take it over. You need to get some goddamn sleep, Tim." He reached over the computer chair and grabbed Tim under his arms, hefting him up and finally draping him over his shoulders in a lazy kind-of fireman's carry. Tim immediately slipped off one shoulder until his forehead bumped into Jason's lower back. Jason grumbled, but rearranged him.

"Hey, I'm doing you a favor. If B ordered you to do it he'd take you off duty for a week."

No reply, which means Tim was either sulking or unconscious. "You're filthy, you know that?"

Still no reply.

"The first thing you do after you wake up better be take a shower."

He jostled Tim slightly to see if he'd react. Tim's forehead bumped into his back again, but otherwise no dice. "Yeah, fine. Be that way."

The trudge from the Batcave to the manor passed quickly with the one-sided conversation, and when he got to Tim's room Jason pushed open Tim's bedroom door with his foot and shoulder-- his free one-- and almost immediately tripped on a wad of clothing.

"Tim, you're so messy."

Would it be _safer_ to just caber-toss Tim to his bed from here? Navigating his disaster-zone of a room wasn't appealing in the slightest. He made a mental note to pick up some of the scattered clothing and items after putting Tim to bed. He carefully found patches of floor to step to, weaving between shirts and underwear like the floor was lava. /Ew/. Eventually, though, he made to the (unmade) bed and laid Tim down.

"You gotta learn how to make your bed."

Idly, while he stripped Tim out of his shirt. He suspected that it hadn't been changed since Scarecrow. The shirt found itself balled up and thrown on the floor, like all Tim's other clothes.

With Tim's shirt off, Jason could see the sprawling bruises and scars that littered his skin clearly all the way down to his pointy hipbones. Jason pulled the blanket over him and turned away to leave the bedroom, nearly tripping on a sweater as he did.

That did it. The next hour of his time was spent tidying up Tim's pigsty of a room. Alfred, at least, would be happy; Tim, most likely? Not so much. And while Jason would love to see the fireworks, an angry, newly-rested Tim Drake was not an enemy he wanted. He grabbed a fountain pen off Tim's newly-organized desk and scribbled out a note on some post-its he'd uncovered; _I saw nothing_. That should appease him.

Jason trudged out and then made his way to the kitchen, where Alfred had kindly set out a plate of snacks. He must have heard-- or seen-- Jason slaving away cleaning Tim's room for him. The _butler_ was more of a ninja than the actual ninjas in this house. Manor. Whatever. He snagged a handful of salted peanuts and went to the couch, and before he knew it he was asleep.

And, of course, woke up to Tim and Damian fighting. Over Scarecrow, and whether Tim should go after him now that he had a connection, as tenuous as it was. Jason fought against jumping in. Tim was still fatigued and probably hadn't eaten, and if it escalated into a physical altercation Damian would have no problem subduing him. And then Jason could jump in to make sure nobody _died_. Sure enough, Tim snapped at Damian and the fight was on. It was a pitifully short one. Within two minutes, he got pinned facedown on the ground.

Jason made his grand entrance by coming into the room, rubbing his eyes and brushing his hair back. "Wow, how long have you two been going at it?"

Damian scowled and tangled his hand in Tim's hair, the other around his wrists. " _Drake_ has been trying to go down to the Cave upwards of three hours. I believe he is too fatigued to do much good."

Jason frowned. "And how long was I out?"

"Five hours."

Tim whined underneath Damian, squirming in an attempt to dislodge him. Apparently, he didn't appreciate their having a conversation while he was handily pinned.

"So Timmy, here," he nudged Tim's side with his foot, "got about three hours of sleep." He was being charitable, adding in the hour he spent cleaning.

Tim growled and kicked at Jason, who casually stomped his ankles down. "I thought I told you to get some sleep." He paused, waiting for a reply. There was none.

"I was going to let you tag along, but this tired you won't be able to keep up. I'll take Damian instead."

Tim made something between a roar and a cry of frustration as he struggled to find words other than expletives. "You can't bench me! You don't even patrol with us!"

Jason ground his heel down. "I can call Dick and have him bench you instead, if you want to drag everybody into this." Tim, suitably frustrated, simply turned his head away and growled. Damian grinned. Jason nodded sharply at him and he shifted off of Tim, who didn't make a move to get up.  
 

"Tim, get some food and go back to bed. Damian, suit up. We leave in thirty."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have OCs, because I need henchmen.


	4. b-e-h-a-v-e

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penguin's warehouse gets a surprise visit from Robin and Red Hood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies in advance. ocs ahoy, presenting benjamin and elliot mckenzie. i wrote half of this in one sitting and the other half in bits and pieces. also, the new grimes album is my JAM.

_(never more/  
you gave up being good when you declared a state of war)_

After Jason suited up he searched the Batcave's computer for whatever information Tim managed to dig up, turning up a cramped three-page document full of coordinates, patrol routes, and a detailed map of a warehouse that was... near the Iceberg Lounge, actually.  Many speculations littered the page in size-eight font under the larger size-eleven, from Scarecrow using Penguin's territory to mask his goings-on to Penguin purchasing the toxin to put in his drinks-- the drink in question being his fall special, aptly named the _Thriller_ , which boasted a _secret ingredient_. Those two theories were most prevalent and supported by the evidence Tim had, so in lieu of actually knowing Jason adopted those.  
  
When he went to check on Damian, he was swinging around in the back of the Cave-- "come on, let's go," and then landed with a soft _thunk_ before walking up to Jason.  
  
"What did you find?" Damian, of course, crossed his arms and looked up at Jason expectantly. Figuring that letting him do the reading and briefing work himself was fine, Jason shrugged.  
  
"Take a look." He handed over the neatly printed and stabled papers for Damian's perusal, and in the interim of that and Damian being ready to go he got his bike-- a red Ducati, though modified beyond belief-- ready.  
  
Jason and Damian shared a strange rapport. Of course, it wasn't a smooth relationship; Jason doubted that Damian even _had_ one apart from with Dick, and maybe Bruce. But one thing they could do effortlessly was fight together. All the former or current Robins could, really, including Stephanie. It came as easily as breathing, voiceless communication through symbols and eye contact, every tensed muscle a hundred unsaid words. _Batman_ and Robin were scary to criminals. _Red Hood_ and Robin was a nightmare, especially since _they_ had no problem with hurting for the sole purpose of hurt. On the way to the coordinates specified in Tim's notes, they apprehended not two but _three_ robberies. Broken bones abounded, but only one person died, and that was his own damn fault for running away. It was exhilarating. Shadows cover the city at night-- they weren't the only things. Blood and shot casings, puddles of dirty water, choking smog if one ventured too close to the industrial zone.   
  
All just fun and games until they reached their real objective. Jason and Damian came in through a busted skylight (did these people ever learn?) and then it was easy pickings of the thugs sluggishly patrolling the artificially-refrigerated warehouse; Jason chose one hanging away from the others, and Damian jumped over the railing to scare the rest off.  
  
The operation went off without a hitch-- Jason grabbed their guy by the neck, and Jesus Christ he was almost as light as Tim, obviously using layers to give an illusion of bulk. In the minute it took to drag him-- one hand around his throat, the other over his mouth--squirming, up the stairs and back to the upper level, Damian had cleared out the ground floor. He joined Jason within ten seconds, just in time to watch the thug get pushed back into the concrete wall so his head smacked against it, stunning him. Without much ado Jason pulled one of his guns from the holster and pointed it very deliberately at the guy's face.  
  
"--please don't hurt me..." his voice was very, very small, but at least he wasn't freaking out. Someone who could separate _feeling fear_ from _acting on it_ was rare around here, so Jason decided to toss him a bone-- he lowered the gun's aim to his knee.  
  
"Talk. What's in the shipment you're getting?"  
  
"Um."  
  
"I said _talk_."  
  
"Uh, I think, uh--" _oh sweet Jesus_ , did he know how to speak? "It's. Uh." His sentence broke off and he looked away for a second, arms crossing in front of him, angled slightly away-- body language, stuttering words screaming fear-- "I'm not-- Um, I'm not sure."  
  
"So you know nothing."  
  
The thug-- and Jason was beginning to seriously doubt that he was a thug-- nodded quickly. Jason gave a harsh bark of laughter-- anger, a reminder that despite how diplomatically he'd been governing the interrogation so far, it could get much worse very, _very_ fast-- and inclined his head towards Damian, who twirled a batarang in his fingers pointedly.  
  
"Then you're useless to us."  
  
Jason shook his head in agreement and sighed, then raised his gun again-- trained it on his forehead. The thug froze. "You should know that at least knowing something is insurance that you stay alive longer than it takes to tell us. Consider that a free tip."  
  
The way he staring at the muzzle of the gun made him look like a deer in the headlights-- a much better reaction than fighting or fleeing.  
  
Jason's head turned when a voice rang out from the floor level of the warehouse.  
  
"Elliot! Elliot, where are you?"  
  
The thug-- who, judging by the way he turned even whiter, made a small, scared, _wounded_ noise, was most likely Elliot-- tensed like he wanted to make a break for it, but the gun in his face persuaded him not to. Jason should have shot him then and there. Sure, Damian followed the no-killing rule. But he _didn't_.  
  
"Shut up and stay still or die."  
  
Elliot nodded, pale and trembly, but Jason sincerely doubted that he'd won his cooperation.  
  
"Robin?" Damian nodded, and they both dove over the railing, thug abandoned but not forgotten behind them-- not a threat, so not important.  
  
Surprisingly, Damian actually got to the thug on the ground floor first, handily landing boots-first into his side. The man bent over and gasped --wind knocked out of him--, leaving himself open to Jason landing on his back. They didn't have much time to subdue the thug-- not kill, because for all they knew _he_ had their information-- before another interruption. This was pointless, and frustrating, and a _waste of time_ \--  
  
  "Benji!" Elliot's voice came shrill, terrified, and _then_ Jason turned back to shoot him without a second thought. The bullet went slightly off-mark as the thug under him grabbed his ankle-- knowing exactly what he was going to do-- and hit Elliot in the shoulder instead of the head; regardless, he went down with a cry, and Jason turned back to _Benji_.  
  
"Your brother?" The guy was big, but he still wasn't as big as Jason, so he had no trouble ruthlessly pulling Benji off of him and slamming him against the ground as soon as he got an answering clout on the shoulder that missed his jaw by centimeters. "I'll take that as a yes."  
  
Damian had gone up to Elliot as soon as he heard him scream, all set to subdue him in case he tried to fight or run again.  
  
"I told him to stay quiet or die, you know." He kept his tone conversational, grabbing the collar of Benji's shirt and pulling him up. He was stunned and dizzy, a thin stream of blood starting to flow from his nose. But he understood the implicit threat well enough to come up with a rejoinder.  
  
"--no. Kill me instead, he's just a _kid,_ he doesn't deserve it."  
  
_The response_ was immediate, and Jason nearly smirked. Indeed, his lips twitched up and it was only the hood that hid it, because that kind of reaction was _exactly_ what he was counting on. There were a few thuds and a pained whine barely audible from the upper level, which proved that Elliot did indeed try to fight back.  
  
"You can keep both of you alive if you tell me what you're transporting for Penguin. Whether you both leave here in one piece is completely dependent on how fast you answer."  
  
Benji froze, mind stalled in terror. Damian came down the stairs with Elliot in tow-- nose newly bleeding-- and it seemed to help him think. "Fear toxin. We're getting fear toxin."  
  
"Edging in on Crane's territory, hm?" It's a vague answer-- what kind?-- but it confirmed their shipment was coming here-- and not to one of the other warehouses listed on Tim's paper.  
  
"When's it getting here?" He gripped the shirt tighter, pulled Benji closer.  
  
"In an hour." It's as accurate as he could give, most likely, so Jason pushed him back, trusted he could stay on his feet, and walked over to Damian and Elliot. He grabbed Elliot and shoved him forwards.  
  
"Run to Benji and get the fuck out of here before I change my mind, and you two tell Penguin that if he works with Scarecrow again we'll kick his ass."  
With a slap to the shoulder-- his injured one-- Jason sent him off. They left at record speed, what with twisted ankles and three working arms between them.  
  
"How many voices do we need to deliver a message?" Damian looked downright murderous. Clearly, he expected Jason to give him the go-ahead to maim one of them before they were let go.  
  
"Don't waste your batarangs on scum like them."  
  
It was the only answer he'd get. Jason turned and stalked off in the direction of the exit.  
  
Damian looked at him like he'd just sprouted another head. "I was sure you'd just shoot them both."  
  
"This is T- _Red Robin's_ case. If anybody died, he'd be blamed."  
  
"So you have _honor_ now?"  
  
Jason bit back a retort much harsher than the one he ended up saying.  
  
"Does it really matter? C'mon, let's go disrupt that shipment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: green-clad loser. hopefully will be up BEFORE finals instead of after it, but no promises.


	5. and whatever rhymes with eloquent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Damian meet with-- more like hunt down-- Riddler. Jason attempts to initate a friendly spar with Tim and instead triggers memories that would far better be forgotten.

_(they call me mister knowitall/_  
 _i will not compromise)_  
  
"Dammit!" Jason would be tearing his hair out if it weren't covered by the hood. Inside the shipment, the glass vials that held the payload-- fear gas-- had been replaced with a beautiful origami swan sitting serenely in the center. He grabbed it to crush the paper, but stopped as soon as he noticed crabbed, thinly-pencilled writing on the swan's breast.  Damian came up behind him and read around his shoulder.  
  
_I make you weak at the worst of all times._  
 _I keep you safe, I keep you fine._  
 _I make your hands sweat, and your heart grow cold,_  
 _I visit the weak, but seldom the bold._  
  
_What am I?_  
  
 A riddle. A god _damned_ riddle. So Nygma was involved too, somehow, although this might just be a pissing contest between the two villains. Villain and detective. Villain and possible ally. Who knew these days?  
  
"Fear."  
  
"I know, Robin. So, let's hunt down our wordsmith and see what _he_ knows about this."  
  
This time, they didn't stop to apprehend criminals-- Jason just kneecapped them going 50 down the streets and called that crimefighting. Luckily, Nygma was going straight these days (although his choice in arm candy begged to differ--) and did his business in a clearly-marked building with loft overhead. However, the man himself was bent over a huge stack of paperwork, half-asleep, and looking-- well. Pale. Sickly. Even his hair seemed a duller shade of red, coppery-- like dried blood. From what Jason had seen of security footage, his cane wasn't just for show anymore, either.  
  
"Nygma. We need to talk."  
  
Absorbed in his bookkeeping, it took Jason slamming his hand down on the desk for him to look up, and even then it was _slow_.  
  
"Is my window intact?" He wasn't standing as he might have in the past, and he sounded simply resigned instead of indignant.  
  
"We used the door. Why did you intercept Crane's shipment of fear gas to Cobblepot?" That was Damian. Clearly, the musty smell of books, stale coffee, sleepless nights and bone-deep pain saturating the place pressed some kind of button in his head. But this wasn't routine. They all had every right to be jumpy.  
  
"Timothy was much better than the rest of you punks." Riddler spoke with something near disdain and shuffled a few papers around on his desk. "And don't fret, my office is far from bugged. Your identities are safe with me."  
  
Jason crossed his arms. "Cut to the chase, Nygma. Why did you destroy the shipment?"  
  
Riddler smirked in counterpoint to the twin scowls he got from Damian and Jason.  
  
"Usually, Crane _tests_ his toxins before using them. He crossed a line, so I merely sent a message."

"That _we_ got instead." Damian interrupted.  
  
"That _I_ trust will be delivered to him regardless of who is doing the delivering."  
  
Jason nodded sharply. As much as Nygma annoyed him, the man was smart and had a point (and how he hated to admit it), and was a well of knowledge (and helpful) when he was trying to play straight. He crossed his arms and stared pointedly at Damian, who reluctantly tucked a sneaked batarang back into his belt. Riddler breathed out a quiet sigh of relief-- he was perceptive, Jason knew, he wasn't going to show _fear_ but he wasn't going to be proactive-- Jason didn't get it, but fine. As long as he didn't have to deal with him any longer.  
  
"Damian. Let's go."  
  
He turned on his heel and made for the exit of the building. Damian followed, shooting one last nasty look over his shoulder at Nygma, who simply waved them out and, presumably, got up to close the door.  
  
"Why is he so _calm_ about this?" Damian was fuming and keeping pace with Jason through sheer will-- he looked like he was trotting along at Jason's side, boots falling lightly-- _tapatapatapatap_ \-- on the puddled concrete.  
  
"He's dying. It's in his file."  
  
"Of _what_?"  
  
Jason debated telling him. It wasn't as if he would rub it in his face-- well, there was no way of knowing, but Damian had grown out of that state, right? Right?  
  
"Leukemia. It's why his family moved from Connecticut to Gotham, the cheap treatment." He'd been a scrawny, scared kid back then, and if Jason told him that he still was, well--  
  
Riddler didn't lie.  
  
"Which _obviously_ didn't work." Damian sneered, for all appearances unfazed. Jason shook his head.  
  
"That's not our business."  
  
"And why wasn't he treated in Arkham?" He actually did seen interested. In his own morbid way, which really didn't need fostering-- Jason answered anyways, voice steady as he climbed skillfully up onto the parking structure where their bikes were stashed.  
  
"He _is_ a master hacker. He deleted medical records, history, anything."  
  
"And why didn't my father do anything about it?" Damian sounded mildly offended, leapfrogging over Jason's back to continue ahead of him. Any other time, Jason would have grabbed his foot to bring him back down to his level--  
  
_Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a Robin by the toe--_  
  
_Unhand me, Hood!--_  
  
\--now wasn't any other time.  
  
"Since when has Riddler ever accepted help?" Jason let his voice harden, and Damian thankfully dropped the subject. Jason caught a flash of yellow cape as he jumped over the concrete lip of the structure and to where their bikes were parked.  
  
Damian was waiting for him, arms crossed.  
  
"And what's in it for him to get revenge for Tim?"  
  
"He wasn't getting revenge. He was aggravating Scarecrow." And, well-- he _was_ getting revenge for Tim, but in that distant way that begged plausible deniability, like with everything he did that helped them.  
  
Jason knew, good as anyone, the more you distanced yourself from people the  easier it was to hurt them. And the more you distanced yourself the easier it was not to hurt when they did.  
  
Their nighttime escapade ended with them back at the Cave. Damian peeled off to go talk to Dick, and Jason grunted at Bruce, who grunted back, so at least two meaningful conversations had taken place in the Cave that day. Jason went off to take a shower. He wasn't hurt anywhere, amazingly-- maybe a few bruises, but that was par for the course.  
  
The water was, put plainly, a godsend. Jason stripped as the water heated up and rubbed shampoo in his hair, thinking over the day's events-- infiltrating the Penguin outfit, meeting Riddler, Damian's... concern, the ever-present guilt that hung around Bruce dissipating the slightest bit at communication--  
  
A very eventful day, indeed. He rinsed his hair, stepped out, and grabbed a towel.  
  
He hadn't really _checked_ on Tim since carting him upstairs and cleaning his room, had he? He didn't _need_ to, of course, Tim was mature and could take care of himself (could he?). But while he was in the area, it couldn't hurt. Mind made up, he pulled on clean clothes (Alfred was _magical_ ) and went up into the manor.  
  
" _I'll do what I can. The files should be uploaded to this laptop by 'o-eight-hundred tomorrow. And get some rest, okay? You don't look too good._ "  
  
Tim nodded to whoever it was on the screen-- long red hair pulled up into a messy bun, though the rest of his face was shrouded in shadow.  
  
"'Kay. Thanks for all your help. I wouldn't be able to do this without you."  
  
Uncommon words of gratitude. Jason leaned against the doorframe and glared at the laptop. As if sensing how _unwanted_ his presence had become, the person on the other side of the screen bid a cheery farewell to Tim and closed down. And upon seeing the circle-A symbol, well, things made sense. Lonnie was... Friendly? Safe? He didn't know how Tim classified him, but he trusted him enough to do a video chat while out of costume, so he was definitely something. Jason rolled his eyes and padded up to the bed-- although Tim knew he was there and stealth was little more than formality.  
  
"Why're you in my room?"  
  
He turned over onto his back, scooted up to sitting. Jason crossed his arms. "You're supposed to be resting."  
  
"I am." Tim hesitated. "Look, you don't have to do this because Dick put you up to it." He looked away, back to the rumpled sheets.  
  
"Do what?" He took another step closer. It was his turn to wait until Tim wanted to talk-- not very long, after all.  
  
"You know-- check up on me." Tim's eyes stayed fixed on the burgundy fabric.  
  
Jason shook his head in reply. "I'm not doing this because Dick told me to. I'm doing this because I want to."  
  
Lacking anything better to say, he jerked his head towards Tim's laptop. "Thought he was in a coma?"  
  
"We got him out of it." Tim shook his head. He didn't want to speak any further about it-- and Jason would oblige. After all, they all had their methods, some of which really weren't meant to be spoken about, ever. "Now get out of my room."  
  
"Alright." Without anything in the way of warning, Jason grabbed a blanket and tugged, and it was only thanks to Tim's fast reaction time that he didn't tumble off the bed. "But you really have to get some rest now."  
  
It was impossible to miss the edge in his voice; an invitation for Tim to talk back, try and repulse him, anything, and Tim responded in kind-- "You come into _my_ room--" and launched himself at Jason, legs snapping around his waist for a takedown. Jason reversed the momentum to tear him off, grabbing Tim by the shoulder and pushing him away.  
  
"I'll tell Alfred on you sparring in the manor--"  
  
"My room, my rules, Jason--" and Tim took him by surprise by slaloming around obstacles on the messy-again floor and jumping to wrap his legs around Jason's neck from behind, using his shoulders as a springboard. The pressure wasn't hard enough to choke him; indeed, if Tim was around his chest instead Jason would've called it a piggyback ride. "And you started it!"  
  
Jason tuck-and-rolled over the mattress to dislodge Tim, and when Tim stubbornly refused to be shaken off, grabbed a handful of Tim's hair and tugged him back down onto the mattress. Immediately the legs around his neck disappeared, and Tim was clutching at his wrist with both hands. (And Jason _knew_ he'd fucked up, because his scalp still had to be sore and the memories still had to be raw and it all had to be _terrifying_ \--) Jason let go. Tim rocked back onto his knees, sinking slightly into the mattress, and rubbed his head ruefully. The moment of terror had been just that-- a moment. Nevertheless, the damage was done.  
  
Jason sighed and brushed hair out of his face, the movement jerkier and rougher than usual. The tussle shouldn't've made either of them break a sweat, and yet Tim looked like someone had socked the air out of him and Jason felt a clammy sweat break out on his forehead. "Look, just get some rest."  
  
"Alright, alright."  
  
And once again, Jason booked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, unless i am terribly mistaken, we never knew what kind of cancer riddler had exactly, so i made an executive decision to make it leukemia. also, am i implying lonnie took a dip in a lazarus pit???? yes. stop unfair fridging of my fav characters 2k16(!!!!) next chapter: another spar, considerably less friendly. jason imparts some wisdom to tim.


	6. keep the lights on in this place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparring, brotherly words of wisdom that aren't all that well received-- all in a day's work for Jason Todd, resident zombie.

_(i don't wanna fall, fall away/_  
 _I don't wanna fall, fall away)_  
  
As always, he came back to the manor like a fish on some bitter psychic hook-- this time, because his main safehouse had bugs all over it. Who did it? Who knew. The bugs showed signs of Karon Industries tech, but it was iffy-- and so he needed access to the Batcave's resources. He took up residence in his old room and avoided everyone.  
  
Jason wandered down to the Cave after grabbing breakfast from the fridge. Alfred would kill him, but that was alright; he had experience with Alfred's disappointment, even though it made him feel several levels lower than the scum of the earth.  
  
Tim was practicing flips on the uneven bars. He fairly flew through the air, graceful even in baggy sweats and a too-large tank top, and Jason simply stood and watched for a little bit as he polished off his breakfast.  
  
"Hey, Jason." Tim waved at him before switching to the simulation. He popped on the glasses and was promptly lost to the world. Or, at least, whatever part of the world had decided to spend his morning down in the Cave. Jason. Right.  
  
He ate up time playing around with blunted batarangs, tossing them at targets and juggling a few once that got old. Tim seemed to be stubbornly sticking with the simulation. To avoid talking with Jason, they both knew-- and Jason was extremely good at waiting games. Tim had been down there longer, so he'd have to pause for water and a break _sometime_.  
  
Their standoff ended twenty minutes later, Tim apparently having vanquished the digital hordes.  
  
"What's up?" Tim had a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, and his top was damp, but he still projected plenty of energy. Jason managed an easy smile and gestured to the rocky ceiling. Tim exhaled in a harsh way that might pass for a laugh, maybe.  
  
"Serious. Why are you down here?"  
  
Jason feigned injury and placed a hand over his heart, sighing long and low. "I'm not allowed to grace you with my presence?"  
  
Tim didn't crack a smile. Tough crowd.  
  
"I wanted to spar with you. Make up for that shit a couple days ago."  
  
Tim sighed. His eyes traced the gym area of the Cave. As hard-to-get as he was playing, Jason knew he wouldn't turn him down, and found himself proved right once Tim nodded. "Sure."  
  
Jason approached and clapped him on the shoulder. Tim's eyes narrowed, and then--  
  
Jason tried to flip him. Tim kneed him in the shoulder, cocked just-so to miss his neck, and latched around his face like a goddamn headcrab.  
  
"You little _shit_!" Jason yelped. Tim laughed and squeezed. Finally, Jason pried him off after several seconds of trying to avoid shoving his face into Tim’s crotch accidentally and not get strangled; he shoved Tim down to the ground and let himself be driven back. The giddy feeling of a good, hard fight to clear the air was just setting in, and they both pushed away to prowl around the mats, circling each other.  
  
The fight continued much in that fashion for a few more minutes. Tim, as tired as he was, managed to hold his own—despite himself, Jason was impressed.  
  
Until Jason snared him by his hair and neatly twisted him into a headlock. Tim then yelped, made a pained noise-- then, like all the air had been forcefully sucked out of him, deflated. He kicked, twisted, but it was all useless and directionless, borne of panic.  
  
"You've gotta shake out of it, Tim." Jason tightened his hold on Tim's hair. Like it or not, Tim was a fighter; and he _would_ shake out of the headlock eventually.  
  
He seemed to get the message and then stomped down hard on Jason's instep, prompting him to grunt and let go. Tim whirled around and punched him in the solar plexus before he could react. Jason easily could've fought back; instead, he let the force push him down onto the mat. Tim relaxed into a ready stance as he flopped over onto his stomach, movements almost comically over-exaggerated. "Aw, fuck. You hit _hard_."  
  
"Don't throw the fight." Tim's expression stayed stony. Right.  
  
"As if." He swung his leg out as if to tri p Tim; he jumped over and landed on Jason's back, hands going for Jason's elbows-- Jason rolled over until Tim was trapped under him. Tim cocked his legs up until he could brace his feet against Jason's back, and then kicked out with as much force as he could.  
  
The thing about Tim was that he didn't do anything in halves. He hit harder than Jason, for example, and he hit right in the small of Jason's back in a way that genuinely launched Jason off of him. This time, Tim pinned him without wasting time to see if he was okay. Jason thumped his fist on the floor a few times, signaling his surrender; otherwise, Tim would find something that hurt and twist it until he did. Adrenaline junkie, Jason was; masochist, not so much.  
  
Tim rolled off of him and stood, face red from exertion and sweating lightly, "So, was that just to help me _conquer my fears_ , or did you _actually_ want to spar?"  
  
\--bitter. Alright. Jason kind of deserved it. "Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to kick your ass?"  
  
"No." That's the Tim he was looking for! Some amusement, some exasperation, but no anger.  
  
"I'm gonna go get some water. You want some?" He gestured towards the fridge at the opposite end of the cave. Tim nodded and plopped down onto the sparring mat, leaving Jason to walk over there alone and fetch the waters. (And think of what to say to Tim _now_.)  
  
"Hey, R- Tim." Jason sat down on the edge of the mat, passing Tim the extra water bottle. "Lemme let you in on something."  
  
Tim caught the bottle, unscrewed the cap, already held rapt by Jason's words no matter how firmly he stared at everything _excepting_ him. "Hm?"  
  
"Before I, uh," and wow, this was ten times harder than it'd seemed in his head, "took my dirt nap, I wasn't close to anybody except for Alfred and Bruce. And, I mean, they were cool, and don't get it wrong-- they meant the _world_ to me-- but if I had someone around my own age, like Dick, to talk to and work out my problems with..." He shook his head, nail flicking against the plastic cap. "I never would've gone into that warehouse. I was a scared and lonely kid looking for a knot in my rope, Tim, and. Well. You can't go grabbing at knots that aren't there."  
  
"And?" Tim cocked his head like some inquisitive golden retriever. The bastard. He knew, he just wanted to make Jason say it out loud.  
  
"And? You're heading the same way. You haven't been out with the Titans since you gave up the mantle, _and_ you've refused to work with the rest of them. Us." He took a sip, waited for Tim's rebuttal.  
  
Ah, there it was. "I have Lonnie, and Steph, and Cass. We talk. And I _didn't_ give up the mantle. It was _taken_ from me."  
  
Jason shook his head, wiping a stray bead of sweat off of his brow. After so long of operating under a heat-trapping helmet, he should be used to sweat in his eyes. Never _mind_ that his mask caught the worst of it. Toying with a bone-white chunk of hair, he peered at Tim from the corners of his eyes.  
  
"Lonnie is an informant and those two have been on a strictly professional relationship with you, Tim. You're cutting yourself off from personal relationships and becoming a bitter, self-sacrificing wreck."  
  
Tim sputtered on his water. "And you're the one telling me that? Takes one to know one, then."  
  
Jason shook his head again and put his water down next to his crossed ankles. Tim was protesting, but not denying, and that alone proved he really was a genius. "Trying to go after Scarecrow alone was _suicidal_. Don't think I don't know it."  
  
"But I went with you!"  
  
"And if I wasn't _there_? And the next day, Tim?" A hint of anger entered Jason's voice, and he didn't care enough to school it out. Before Tim could say anything more, Jason used his shoulder as a support and stood up, leaving his water on the ground. "You have a support system, Tim, and you've gotta use it sooner or later if you don't wanna send us all on a wild goose chase checking ditches."

Tim glared at him as he left. Jason couldn’t see, of course, but he felt it—sharp, and if eyes could shoot bullets he’d be riddled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...has it been three months already? Sorry, guys.  
>  Next chapter: I love Anarky and he is coming back.


End file.
